In for a Penny
by bunny angel
Summary: He should have pulled the goddamn trigger. [ Tag to 4x23 and 4x24. Mild Spoilers for 5x01. ]
1. Chapter 1

**In for a Penny  
By: B.A.**

Hesitation was a killer.

Well, technically, he wasn't dead yet—but he sorta wished he was, promises to his partner notwithstanding.

He tried not to swallow the bitter copper in his mouth, probably couldn't even if he wanted to, and was damn sure he wasn't going to try and move anything to spit it out. He struggled to just breathe through his rapidly swelling nose.

He eyed the chuckling maniac bending over him, sky blue pupils bright with mirth and whatever sadistic jollies the man was deriving from this.

The mouth spoke, but he couldn't hear over the insistent whine of the drill. It bounced around inside his head, pulling along with it a shrieking pain that echoed along pathways he wished he didn't know existed. He didn't think it would ever go away.

He should have pulled the goddamn trigger.

It was customary, after all—almost SOP by now. Threaten an agent? Receive a bullet, or three. Shoot first, solve mystery later, paperwork in the following day (or else).

But he knew if he could do it all over again, his choice—any one of theirs, really—would remain stupidly the same. The nukes were bigger than any of them; more lives than he wanted to be responsible for had he taken those shots.

Whose idea had this been anyway?

The ego of man, to try to predict and control the actions of his fellow.

He had to admit, they'd always been good at it. Hetty was the grandmaster, always five steps ahead; and the apple, she'd smacked Callen in the face and never fallen at all.

Except, their version of chess was a shitty, shitty game when you were on the losing side. The pawns hadn't been so much pawns as players in their own right. Check and mate?

He hoped not. He wasn't ready to lie down.

He wished Sam would stop looking at him like that, as if he would break so quickly and the secrets would come spilling so easily; like he didn't know how to withstand pain—though, this was a new level of hell, even for him.

Seriously, they had barely started. He knew he could withstand at least another hour...probably. Maybe even two, if he went blessedly unconscious. He knew full well the value of _not_ giving up your fellow officers and agents _without_ being a Navy SEAL, thank you very much Mr. Sam Hanna. He'd have awesome hair not doing it, too.

The fingers tangled in said hair tightened, shaking him.

His focus narrowed mostly on Sidorov, who didn't look quite so amused anymore and more so murderous.

The sudden loss of support holding his head up had it thunking back into the chair. The world blurred into a miasma of mute, angry colors; fire spreading through already fried nerves and reigniting them.

If no one important witnessed him whimpering like a kicked puppy, it didn't happen right? He struggled to contain the noise anyway, lest the cavalry come crashing through the door somehow. He'd probably get shot in the crossfire, probably by Kensi, _probably_ accidentally, of course.

He was pretty sure it had been a bad idea to kiss her, but they were both pretty shitty on subtlety. The look had been worth it, mostly, for the hassle of the past few weeks.

The dancing had been grating, like it didn't used to be, and he just hadn't been keen on doing it for another couple of years; especially not on a razor's edge every time he went undercover with a woman.

He had enough of his own misgivings, thank you. He hadn't needed Monica's opinions, ever tinted with hurt and betrayal, and he sure as hell didn't need the great Kensi Blye to grind him further into the dirt.

No, he would hand that fun little ball over to her to do as she pleased.

Friend, partner, lover. He could and would take her wherever she decided to draw that line.

He could roll with the punches, even if they were sometimes gut-wrenchingly agonizing.

Nothing compared to _this_ anyway.

The tell-tale click of a bullet sliding into its chamber brought the pieces of his focus back together again, and he opened his eyes to greet the barrel that stared him in the face.

_Ah._

The man sure lacked patience.

He glanced over at Sam's face for only a moment.

In for a pound, they say.

Too bad it was his flesh on the plate.

"She'll never believe that he's an agent," he said, grinning against the liquid dripping from his mouth and the agonizing pulse of everything in the vicinity of his head. "She may be fond of you, but she loves him. She chose him. She'll just kill you for killing him. Or you'll kill her—but I have my money on your little pet assassin. Win-win I say."

Sidorov sneered and slugged him.

He doubled over as his organs protested, wheezing out a laugh that was half relieved it hadn't been his face this time; bitter satisfaction flaring at the ire and contemplation behind the amusement in those eyes.

The phone rang.

"It's Veronica," Mikhail said, relinquishing the phone as his boss held out a hand.

"Is she contained?" Sidorov said, by way of greeting.

He blinked as the man suddenly chuckled, the gun finally veering away from his face.

"Quinn. I should have known."

He eyed the two men, wondering if this was his moment. He tugged experimentally on his bindings again to see if his struggles had loosened them any. They hadn't.

With a little exhale of disappointment, he settled down and decided to do what he did better.

"Hell hath no fury like a woman, Sidorov. I'd start planning an exit if I were you. Sniper scope has a pretty impressive range," he said, grinning wide. His jaw throbbed violently with every word, an ice pick chipping away at the very marrow of his molars.

The gun locked on him again. "I apologize for the trespass, my dear. I was under a grievous misconception. It will not happen again."

"He tried to kill David, Quinn!" He said loudly.

He saw it coming, but nothing prepared him for the maelstrom of white hot agony as the butt of the gun impacted on his cheekbone. It spread along his damned nerves like lightning, frying everything thrice over and leaving him choking, eyes squeezed shut against the tears that were fast coming. His head lolled uselessly, his strength all but swept away.

"I assure you, David is alive and well, for now. I have a friend you should meet, if you would so indulge me. There is something you need to know about your beloved. Mikhail will contact you once we have located him."

"Find Janvier," Sidorov ordered, tossing the phone to his man. The amusement was back in those eyes as the gun finally dropped away.

"You will live, for now, detective. I am sure the lovely Quinn will have a few words of her own for you once she finds out your partner has been deceiving her all this time."

He smiled.

_AN: Impulse write really. No beta. Minimal research and fact-checking and no over-consideration of plot and inconsistencies and details. Just some things bugged me about the finale that I needed to address. Why Deeks didn't shoot and why they adamantly kept claiming Michelle wasn't an agent-which they wouldn't do if she wasn't, right? Idk. I just felt like that was a dead giveaway. Unsure if one-shot. Don't hold your breath, haha._


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: I had a second chapter like 3/4s written with a Sam/Deeks great escape bonding time...and then spoilers and oh MAN, that Ascension promo just tossed it all out the window. So here's a short ditty to carry you for the next two weeks. Haha._

**In for a Penny  
By: B.A.**

He knew he was hallucinating.

It couldn't be a good sign, because he distinctly remembered being semi coherent just a minute ago in a room with angry Russians.

It was funny because he didn't think he was one for daddy issues. He'd come to term with that a long time ago, or so he'd thought. Right?

"What are you doing here?"

There was no anger or hate in his tired, tired voice. Really, the sonovabitch didn't deserve such passion. Gordon John Brandel was dead. His time had passed. His legacy over and long done.

So he knew he was hallucinating, because his father stood grinning in front of him, hands shoved into pockets and a mean, jaunty grin on his face.

"That's all you got, boy?"

"That's all I got," he said, grinning the shit eating grin that had so infuriated his old man in life. "You should get on back, they're probably missing you in hell already."

He had a sudden thought that it'd be an awful, awful thing if the man had been sent here to accompany him back to the pits. He couldn't recall any singular circumstance in his life that would warrant such a destination. Well, beyond his obvious body count, and all the women he'd slept with, and all the lies he'd told, and the attempted murder of his-

Okay, so he probably did deserve it, in every way that counted.

Well, that sucked, hard.

Kensi was going to be so mad at him.

He exhaled, fingers flexing nervously.

"Why are you here?"

That wide, malicious grin again.

He considered the downsides of starting eternity with his father by punching him.

Except, the pain that suddenly exploded on his face dragged him from the depths of his subconscious to screaming, agonizing reality. Though, it was more of a moan that erupted from his throat, rusted by congealed blood and swollen tissue at the back of his mouth. All of it was overshadowed by the vicious throbbing of his cheek.

His eyes rolled over to find wavering silhouettes and he squeezed them shut, turning away. Right, angry Russians. He swallowed convulsively, the acrid bile burning as he forced it back down.

Fingers threaded through his hair, fisting tight and yanking upwards; miniscule pain that somehow combined to become that much more unbearable. He thought, with no small amount of irony, that Sam might actually have it right about that hair thing.

"Time to wake up, Detective," Sidorov said with a humorless smile. "You have a visitor."

The man stepped away, and time slowed, as he looked at Michelle, and Michelle looked at him. His eyes flickered to Sam. His pleading expression was gone, leaving something akin to resignation and regret. The flare of hope died before he even knew he had it. He didn't hear what Sidorov had to say anymore.

He had known, hadn't he? It was bigger than them.

Her face was stone cold, her persona flawless, even now, as she raised the gun.

He felt the corner of his lip quirk up slightly in tired admiration.

It didn't hurt any less, knowing she had no choice, that it was her best choice, and that any other choice would have just left him in that much more agony.

It hurt so much more, knowing he wouldn't have been able to do the same.

The bullet was a sledgehammer to the chest, slamming him back into the seat. He writhed, wishing his hands were free to ease the growing ache, his shallow breaths serving only to ratchet the pulse already pounding frantically, abstract panic and horror clawing away at his grasp on calm at the thick warmth leeching out of the hole in his chest and onto his shirt.

He was going to die here, killed by the wife of a man who never thought he was good enough.

And maybe he was right about that too.

If he'd only been smarter, or faster.

If he'd only pulled that goddamn trigger, consequences be damned.

Maybe a wife wouldn't have to sacrifice her husband.

Maybe Kensi wouldn't hate him for now having to leave her.

He wanted to laugh.

He really wanted to cry.

He looked up at Sam again, vision growing steadily gray, until the weight of it all dragged him away.

_See you on Sept 24th for the premiere!_


End file.
